Fig Newtons of Feeble Imaginings
She sits, off in the corner…
Waiting, watching, wondering…
How can I get her to put fingers to the magic blocks? How can I get her to craft the squiggles that cause me to dance and sing and fight?
The screen is blank…
And she waits…
How can I get the goddess to tell my tale, to bring my life alive, to win other gods and goddesses to see me, to know me, to love me?
Fingers point and move as signs, hexes, and squiggles appear…
No, why does she not see me? Why does she not tell my tale? This… this is… oh, what does the goddess call it?
Science… kettles… horns… cirques… quanta… waves… frequency… assessment… accommodations…
These are not my words. These aren’t real words. Why will she not give my world life?
Certificate, skills, documentation…
What fresh hell is my goddess creating? Why does she not write about my heaven? My good earth?
Job, employment, layoff, application…
If I try… if I learn these words, will she turn and see me? Will she then speak my name and let my life exist?
Human, sin, wisdom, choices, I am not God…
What?!? You ARE my goddess. You must believe. You must use those words to build my world.
Solitude, silence, rest…
Is this for my goddess? Or is she trying to tell me I have been bad? Have I not served her well?
*screen goes black*
How could I have displeased her? Why has she taken away even the light? I must think. Should I pray?
I go try to sleep, but rest eludes me. Fact merges with fiction, and the blessed dark that encourages dreams devises yet another design to deceive me. A long, dark season of discontent can only be ended by a long, dark night of the soul. I believe that I am at the darkest, and dawn will come soon. I just have to keep pushing — onward, upward, onward, upward.
Does she really rest now? I thought gods and goddesses never sleep. Should I do as she does?
